


comfort zones

by sometimeseffable



Category: Good Omens (TV), Prince of Omens - Fandom
Genre: Aziraphale gets a makeover, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gen, Prince of Omens inspired, minor mentions of body issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22336459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sometimeseffable/pseuds/sometimeseffable
Summary: "Will you please just come out here?"Naturally, since the fashion of Egyptian nobility suited Crowley’s tastes far more than Aziraphale’s, this led to some problems.“Alright. But no teasing!”--Crowley convinces Aziraphale to try a change of wardrobe. Inspired by the art by WhiteleyFoster
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 212





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Whitely Foster's DTIYS but like....a fanfic. Her Prince of Omens AU is my absolute favorite thing!

“I’m not so sure about this…”

Crowley took a swig from the jug of wine on the bedside table. In finally managing to convince Aziraphale of his point, he had forgotten how much coaxing getting the end result usually took. “Come _on,_ angel! You already agreed to it.”

“Yes, but does it have to be so...loose?” Aziraphale’s voice floated out from the other room, where a sandstone wall kept him from view. His slave robes were neatly folded at the corner of the wall, just within reach should he require them. 

“It can’t possibly be that bad.”

“Easy for you to say,” Aziraphale huffed, “You’re all bony and - and _slim._ This skirt wasn’t meant for someone of my...waist.”

Crowley frowned, tugging self-consciously at the dark red linen covering his waist. “It’s a _shendyt._ And I don’t know what you’re on about. A shendyt’s a shendyt no matter who’s wearing it. Will you please just _come out here._ ”

Several drinks deep, the demon had managed to convince his companion to try on clothing that was a little more... _fashionable_ than his usual fare. A little more this century, more _art nouveaus_ than _sand chic._

Naturally, since the fashion of Egyptian nobility suited Crowley’s tastes far more than Aziraphale’s, this led to some problems. 

“Alright. But no teasing!”

The serpent rolled his eyes, though the thought that Aziraphale would think him capable of cruelty in this moment stung. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Close your eyes!”

Crowley, despite grumbling to himself, did as he was told. He heard the soft shuffle of bare feet on the reed rug before Aziraphale nervously said, “So? What’s the damage?”

Yellow slitted eyes opened. And ogled. 

Throughout history, Aziraphale tended to dress in conservative neutrals. The long, drab robes of the Caananites, or a simple blue tunic covered in a brown, rough-spun cape familiar in the Hebrew slave quarters were his comfort zone. Until now, Crowley had barely seen more than the angel’s ankles on the wall of Eden. 

Standing before him was nothing like the Aziraphale he was used to. The shendyt’s gauzy white linen settled comfortably around his hips, fluttering around his knees in the light evening breeze. Gold armbands and anklets set off the milkwhite of his skin like honey; more gold flashed from the heavy neckpiece, as well as the belt fitted around his hips. Glimmering chains dripped down soft thighs, of which Crowley was overcome with an urge to _bite._

“Well?” Aziraphale bit his lip, crossing his arms over his belly as if to protect the exposed softness (Crowley had never seen so much of his torso before, keeping his hands from wandering over the downy hairs was a _nightmare)._ His sugared curls were mussed from running a nervous hand through them again and again. His feet, bare as the day they’d met, shifted from side to side.

He was _gorgeous_.

“Ung,” said Crowley helpfully.

“Oh, it’s ridiculous, I knew it! I’m changing back!”

“No!” Crowley squawked, rushing forward to stop the fingers from snapping the usual robes back into place, “I, uh. Don’t hate it. Opposite of that, in fact. You uh…. _Hell,_ angel, you look good.”

Aziraphale slowly lowered his hand in cautious optimism. “Really? You don’t think I’m too...oh, what’s the right word...plump?”

“Mm - mm.” Crowley slid his hands around Aziraphale’s exposed middle, eliciting a shiver. “Perfect. You’re perfect. Except - “

“What?” The anxious lip-bite returned.

Crowley squinted at his face. “You need some kohl. Finish the look. C’mon.”

He led the angel to a mat near the bed and had him kneel down. A black pot of wet kohl and a brush manifest in his hand. 

“Eyes closed. Stay still.”

Aziraphale dutifully did so, though his hands fidgeted in his lap from the effort of repressing a wiggle. The tip of Crowley’s tongue poked out as he concentrated on keeping a steady hand. One did not want a wobbly curve on the cheekbone.

Once Aziraphale’s eyelids were rimmed in black, Crowley pulled back to examine his work. While he himself had powdered a little crushed malachite over his eyelids, he thought that look would be overkill on Aziraphale’s delicate skin. Simplicity was the name of the game here, after all.

“Alright, open for me.”

Fluttering one’s eyelashes in The contrast of his lightning strike blue eyes with the dark makeup set it all off. Crowley whistled appreciatively. 

“ _Damn,_ angel. All the kings and queens of Egypt would be jealous of you right now.”

_“Stop that.”_

“I’m serious. Nefertari herself couldn’t begin to compare.”

A light pink flush burned on those round cheeks. “Flatterer.”

“You know it.” Crowley settled on the floor next to him in a squat that would have been awkward from a human, one arm wrapping around Aziraphale’s chest. He nuzzled the little curls of hair near his ear. “You look _stunning._ ”

Aziraphale gave him a look that could only be described as a self-satisfied _smirk._ “Oh?”

“Yeah.” The demon pitched his voice to a low growl, “Want me to prove it?”

“ _Goodness_ ,” Aziraphale chuckled as Crowley scooped him up bridal style and carried him towards the luxurious bed spread out before them. “I hope you know this isn’t a permanent change to my wardrobe. Although if this is the reaction it gets…”

Crowley nipped at his neck with the barest hint of fangs as he set his angel down. “Nah, I’d never expect you to change for me. This can be a one time thing, and I’m about to make the most of it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things never change.

“ _ Angel!” _

“Hold  _ on, _ ” Aziraphale sniped, muffled through the solid wood door of the changing room. The same changing room he had been holed up in for twenty minutes straight while Crowley wasted away outside.

“Any longer and I’ll discorporate from boredom.”

There was a huffy shuffling from behind the door. “Patience is a virtue,” his wonderful and not-at-all-fussy partner sang. 

Crowley’s head fell back to knock against the wall. Outside, a perfectly beautiful and temperate day lit the stone streets of Florence with infectious cheer.. A swarm of shoppers buzzed through the high-end roads of gold and silks and leathers, dodging between coffee bars and gelaterias, enjoying what one of the world’s fashion capitals had to offer.  _ Actively  _ enjoying, not stuffed up in a tailor shop with the hard-won spoils of his ‘update-Aziraphale’s-wardrobe-so-help-him- _ Someone _ ’ crusade, as evidenced by the various bags of cashmere jumpers at his feet. 

“Alright, alright!” The brass lock clicked loudly open. Aziraphale stepped out of the fitting room, and Crowley felt his heart (which beat on pure precedent) stutter to a halt.

Crowley often said his tailor worked miracles, but now he wondered just how on the money he was. Paolo had selected a deep navy blue with silver pinstripes for the jacket and trousers of Aziraphale’s suit. A caramel-coloured waistcoat, silk shiny and unworn as the angel’s favorite velvet one was, buttoned primly over the swell of his stomach. Underneath lay a crisp white buttondown, a tie that matched the suit settled at his throat. Even the shoes were new - shiny, black leather oxfords that clicked across the marble floor as Aziraphale exited the stall, clearly flustered. 

Crowley metaphorically picked his jaw up off the floor before he whistled appreciatively. “ _ Ciao, bello,”  _ he purred, slinking over to the angel in a way that was decidedly predatory.

Anxious fingers fussed with the sleeve of his bespoke suit jacket. Aziraphale’s eyes tracked over his reflection in the mirror opposite, frowning slightly. “You don’t think it’s too...much?”

After millenia of secrets and espionage, it took a moment for Crowley to remember that Heaven and Hell were no longer watching him; the carefree ease of being able to give affection in public was a thrill the demon would never tire of. Therefore, it was only proper that he press a kiss to the corner of Aziraphale’s jaw.

“You look  _ ravishing _ .” Crowley looked up at him from over the rim of his glasses, eyes glinting, “In fact, I think I just might do.”

Aziraphale blushed, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. 

“ _ Rascal. _ ” He was smiling nevertheless. “It  _ is  _ rather smart, isn’t it?” 

Crowley watched as Aziraphale fussed with the collar and cuffs of the outfit, a warm glow alight in his chest at seeing the angel so pleased with his appearance. The whole trip south had come from a great tear in the seat of Aziraphale’s trousers from the mid-19th century, which Crowley had obstinately  _ refused  _ to miracle whole, stating that 200 years for trousers was 150 years too long. He was just about to revel in his victory with an  _ “I told you so”  _ when they were interrupted. 

“ _ Bravo,  _ signore!” Crowley’s tailor, Paolo, cried upon rounding the corner. He ushered them to the mirror. “Vieni qua, vieni qua. Ti piace?”

“Molto,” Crowley interjected before Aziraphale could ask. Romance languages had never stuck well in that brilliant brain of his. He left Crowley to do all the translating on their holidays (except several lovely trips East, where Aziraphale’s Japanese flourished). “Tutto è perfetto, grazie Paolo.”

“Niente.” The tailor beamed with the air of someone who knew they were soon to be generously tipped. “You wish to wear it out?”

“Oh, no, I’m not nearly that brave,” said Aziraphale with a smile, already shedding the jacket with care. Paolo made the appropriate noises to go ring up their purchase as he headed back into the stall to change.

“Need any help?” Crowley called through the door.

Aziraphale’s head poked out for a moment, cheeks bright red.  _ “Behave,  _ you!”

Ten minutes later they were out the door into the bright streets of the Palazzo. Once more dressed in his usual fare, Aziraphale took the back with his suit in one hand and linked the other arm through Crowley’s. “You really liked it, though, yes?”

“Would I lie to you?” Aziraphale looked up at him, smiling softly, and Crowley would never be used to the naked trust in his eyes. He kissed him again, hoping it would convey even a fraction of the love swelling under his ribs. “Come on, then. I vaguely recall I promised you gelato before the Uffizi.”

“I do remember, yes. The one with the chocolate fountain wall,” Aziraphale reminded him airily, as if he would  _ ever  _ forget such a significant detail.

“Whatever you want, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short follow up to the first chapter, purely because I got the idea when studying in Italy lol. Also my headcanon is that Crowley is really good at Romance and like Afroasiatic languages while Aziraphale is good at Ural-Altaic and Germanic ones (but he can figure out reading almost any language for the sake of Books)


End file.
